


Baby Bat

by candicame



Category: Dream Daddy
Genre: Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candicame/pseuds/candicame
Summary: I just kinda sat down and wrote Damien's reaction to Lucien's little prank.  Slice of life father/son time.





	Baby Bat

**Author's Note:**

> Thank god for my editor, Saint because this was a mess before they got ahold of it.
> 
> Tip Jar: https://ko-fi.com/takocos
> 
> I am madly in love with Damien Bloodmarch. I've still got like 3 dads to get through but I'm pretty sure Damien and Mat are the best people in the game.
> 
> I never plan out fanfics so this might be a oneshot or I might add to it if I need to blow off some steam and I'm not in a Zelda mood.
> 
> Relevant headcannons: Mary is Damien's sister. Lucien normally does sell actual weed, he was just fucking with me in particular because he's ALWAYS fucking with me, and it's weed that Damien grows with his green thumb. Lucien also speaks in Victorian slang sometimes because he was raised around it and doesn't always know what other people won't recognize.
> 
> The misspellings in Lucien's dialogue and the odd grammar are intentional. I hope the reason for this is self-explanatory. If it's not I have failed horribly.

Damien glanced at the bottle he had retrieved from his wine cellar- which is what he called the cooler in his basement. He had made a shockingly believable replication of a Victorian era chest with which to frame it, with the help of his son, Lucien, who had proven himself to be good at both woodwork and masonry. His son had a lot of talent in many things, and Damien was usually bursting with pride.

Not tonight.

He popped the cork and poured himself a glass, and briefly thought of his sister. He felt like a magnificent stereotype. He felt like he was somehow aligning with some sort of sick expectation, but he wasn't trying to drink to forget. He wasn't trying to drink to feel better. He only needed a glass or two to loosen his tongue, to take the edge off his nerves. It had taken everything in him not to completely lose his shit with Lucien lately- his second suspension in less than a year, his abysmal manners, and his impromptu tattoo, which Damien believed he had chosen exclusively to piss off his uncle Joseph, and which would have to be tended to eventually with a cover-up when he realized exactly how stupid it had been- had his nerves completely frayed.

Lucien was in that baby-bat stage, the edgelord who had about five years left of this cringeworthy behavior before he blossomed into adulthood and would be forced to look back on his life choices with regret. He would regret wasting his high school years. He would regret leaving permanent marks on his body that meant nothing to him. He would regret the videos he often posted on the internet, which had already been compiled into such gems as “Emo Teen Cringe Compilation”- a compilation Damien sincerely hoped his son remained unaware of.

Damien had been fortunate enough to go through his teen years without much of a record. He started the dishwasher, then went back to lean over the bar and opened his laptop. Damien didn't think Lucien's channel was what the kids were calling “cringe” as he understood it. Most of the things he posted were not things he thought should ever inspire shame. A lot of it was vlogging, a sort of video diary, and some of it involved tutorials for things that Lucien liked and was genuinely good at- though some of them were based around DIY construction, and when Damien had realized Lucien had wanted to chronicle their projects he had refused to work in his actual  _ work  _ clothes, because there was no way he was going to appear on camera in an old tee-shirt and cutoffs, and as a result had ruined many of his good clothes. But some of them...

Some of them were going to be embarrassing. Lucien enjoyed practical jokes, like his aunt Mary. Damien had seen the trait developing in toddlerhood when she would ask him to say things in his little baby voice that she felt would creep out or embarrass whoever he was talking to, and Lucien, much like Mary's own children, had taken to it like a duck to water.

The twins were going to be hell when they were older, and Mary deserved it after what she had started with Lucien, after what she had put Damien through.

He sipped his wine and started the video. Lucien's face popped into view instantly, standing in the schoolyard. Behind him, a group of children had found a blind spot in the school's security system, and were exploiting it to smoke during their lunch break. Damien recognized many of them, as they had been in his house, or he knew their parents: friends of his son's. He hoped Lucien wasn't smoking. He didn't seem to be, at least not in the video. Instead, he was standing a short distance away, smirking into his camera.

“Hey, welcome to my livestream, it's me, Lucien Bloodmarch,” Lucien opened his mouth and hissed in a manner that Damien assumed was supposed to be intimidating, and when his body recoiled in second-hand embarrassment he suddenly understood why the kids were calling this emotion “cringe”.

“In honor of the beginning of finals, I'm here with some much needed benjo. I'm going to break up the stress with some good old fashioned tomfoolery. My buddy here,” he stepped out of frame and the camera zoomed in on Ernest, who was rolling his eyes in response to something another student had said before taking a long drag from his cigarette, “was supposed to read Edgar Allen Poe's 'The Cask of  _ Amontillado'  _ \- and the fact that he's 14 and hasn't read it yet has quite frankly pissed me off. So now he's gonna get Edgar Allen Pwned.”

The camera had apparently been stuck in Lucien's breast pocket, because it moved with him as he parted the crowd of nicotine addicted youths with a hearty, “Mind the grease,” followed by, “I said  _ move _ , bitch.”

Ernest's face and shoulders came into frame as Lucien leaned in conspiratorially, and he glared at the intrusion of his personal space.

“What do you want, Luci?” he asked.

“What are you doing right now?” Lucien asked in response.

Earnest rolled his eyes, took a long drag, and indicated to the cigarette as an answer.

“So I snuck a bottle of mulled wine, a 1898 vintage, out of my dad's cellar,” Lucien explained, “And I hid it in the basement. Wanna skip with me and get shitfaced?”

“Fuck yeah!” Earnest seemed to realize his own excitement and immediately tried to preserve his calm mask, “I mean, yeah, if you want. No one will notice I'm gone. Why the basement?”

“Because, dumbass,” Lucien explained patiently, “They just took the boiler out with all those safety upgrades. There's a bunch of construction equipment and shit and now it's just a big empty room. No one goes down there and there's tons of shit to hide behind. It's perfect. Plus, I already put the wine there, so the major reason is  _ there is wine down in the basement catacombs _ .”

“The fuck is a catacomb?” Earnest asked.

“An underground tunnel.” Lucien explained, apparently growing impatient.

“There are tunnels under the school?” Earnest seemed skeptical.

“No, dumbass,” Lucien sighed, and Damien was going to make a point of asking him not to draw attention to the flaws in other people as often as he did, “I was being dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Earnest took his last hit and threw his butt on the ground, “Dramatic. You in one word.”

“You want to drink with me or not, chuckaboo?” Lucien asked, with too much mirth in his voice for Damien's liking.

“I'm not your fuckin boo,” Earnest ground the butt into the grass with the heel of his shoe.

“No, dumbass, it means-”

“Nobody speaks Vampire but you and your weird dad,” Earnest huffed.

When Lucien spoke again, his voice had lost much of the mirth it had previously held.

“Come on, boo,” Damien could  _ feel  _ the smartass smirk his son had, even without seeing it, “We're back slanging it.”

True to his word on this if nothing else, Lucien led Earnest around the back of the schoolhouse, and inside without anything of interest occurring. No students or teachers stopped them, which irritated Damien, because after the last incident Lucien was  _ supposed  _ to be considered an at-risk child. He had already felt irked at this concept once, when he was told that his son- who was covered in blood, something the school didn't seem at all concerned about- had been completely unsupervised for nearly half an hour. Lucien's behavioral issues were well known; he had already been in therapy twice, both times ordered by things outside the control of the boy or his father- once by a judge and once by Damien's doctors. Ordered therapy does little good for the patient, but it should have alerted the  _ school _ , and the fact that they took no precaution, that Damien was able to watch as his son made his way into the depths of the windowless basement, made his gore rise.

“So where is it?” Earnest asked, as he walked into the center of the basement.

“Shush,” Lucien warned, and busied himself setting up his phone on something stable- which made Damien realize exactly how much planning had gone into this little “practical joke”.

“You said you had wine down here,” Earnest accused.

“I do, but not in the middle of the room. Because I'm not stupid.” Lucien explained, walked over himself, and took Earnest by the hand to lead him over to a spot by the wall.

Damien took another drink of the wine.

“We need to stay over here, behind this support pillar, in case anybody comes down here,” Lucien explained, and Earnest eyed him wearily. “Stand right there. Perfect. Bang up to the elephant.”

“Elephant?” Earnest asked.

“Yup,” Lucien agreed, and fell to his knees. Instantly, Earnest froze, then wriggled as if he didn't know what to do with his hands, pulling his sleeves around them. He pulled his hood down over his face and huddled deeper into it, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked.

“Luci? What are you doing?”

“Nothing, chuckaboo,” Lucien reached out and put one hand on each of Earnest's thighs, and pushed him until he was flush with the wall, “Just stand right there for me.”

Damien watched as Earnest closed his eyes, then, apparently for good measure, buried his face in his hands, which were still covered by his sleeves.

Lucien began to smooth out the first layer of cement. He silently sat down one brick, then another, all perfectly in line, perfectly straight, from the wall to the pillar. After a few seconds, Earnest realized that whatever he had expected was not going to happen, opened his eyes, and tilted his head.

“The fuck are you doing?” he asked in confusion.

“The thousand insults of Earnest I have born quietly,” Lucien didn't look up from his bricklaying, “but when he ventured upon  _ insult _ I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only  _ punish _ but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.”

“What?” Earnest asked.

“It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Earnest cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my way in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation.” Lucien spread a second layer of concrete over first layer of brick.

“Why are you talking in third person? Who are you talking to? Are you not talking to me?” Earnest stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned forward to watch Lucien lay the bricks. “Luci?”

“He had a weak point --this Ernest --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared.” Lucien paused for only a second to smirk up at Earnest, then finished the row and spread a new layer of concrete. “He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Earnest, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.”

“I'm not Italian. And I'm not a quack. And also what are you doing?” Ernest, Damien was happy to see, was finally beginning to figure out that  _ something  _ about the situation was not right.

“It was about noon, one day during the supreme madness of the final exam season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been smoking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting denim pant, and his head was surmounted by a hooded vestment. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.”

“So have you just lost your fucking mind then? Is that's what's happening? You just went crazy and you want me to go crazy with you?” Ernest rolled his eyes.

“I said to him --"My dear Ernest, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a bottle of what passes for fine wine, and I have my doubts."” Lucien continued, and the bricks were now well past Earnest's knees.

“You're fucking with me, aren't you?” Earnest asked, “There's not any wine. You just lied to me. That's...”

“Thus speaking, Ernest possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.” Lucien continued, as he finished another row of bricks. “There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Earnest, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.”

“LUCIEN,” Ernest commanded, “Look at me! What the fuck are you doing? Why did you really bring me down here!?”

“I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Earnest had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.”

“Masonry...” Ernest turned and saw the wall that Lucien had built on either side of him, “What the... WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, BLOODMARCH!?”

Lucien spread his knees, threw out his arms, arched his back, threw back his head, and cackled. Damien really wished he would reconsider joining the drama club. He would have been so good at it. But his eyes were closed, so he didn't see Ernest climb over the waist high wall, and use the force of jumping off of it to land a punch right in Lucien's smug face. The force sent him all the way back, which looked particularly painful because of how he was bending, and Ernest landed on top of him.

“YOU LYING SON OF A BITCH!” Ernest shrieked, and it looked like Lucien managed to get his arms over his face to protect it, but the blood was already dripping all over his chest.

“Get off of me!” Lucien demanded.

“YOU TRIED TO KILL ME!” Ernest reared back to punch him again, but Lucien was older, stronger, and faster, and managed to slide out from under him and skitter away. He was halfway across the room before he stood, with one hand outstretched.

“I wasn't trying to kill you, dumbass,” he protested, “It's a story- a  _ great  _ story.”

“I'M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS!” Ernest threatened.

“Well go ahead, if you wanna be a dumbass your whole life, you whooperus asshole.”

“What's going on down here?” A voice asked from above them, and Lucien dove for the camera. The video ended abruptly, and Damien poured himself a second glass, steadied his resolve, and turned to make his way to his son's room.

He paused outside the door, because as full of hurt as it was, the sound of his son's voice was still beautiful as it floated above the original artist of the music he was playing at an earsplitting volume. He wished he could get him more involved in the arts. Even if it was only to sing at those amateur hour performances Mat sometimes hosted.

“  _ Teenagers scare _

_ The living shit out of me, _ ” Lucien sang along, and Damien wondered if those lyrics hit home for him- if he really was afraid. He didn't seem to like school very much. But he had friends, and he very rarely had outbursts like this. But he also didn't like to burden his father with his emotions. He would rather pretend to be well adjusted than let Damien know he was actually hurting. It bothered him.

“  _ They could care less _

_ As long as someone'll bleed. _

_ So darken your clothes _

_ Or strike a violent pose _

_ Maybe they'll leave  _ **_you_ ** _ alone, _

_ But not me!  _ ”

Damien knocked on the door, and when he received no response, resorted to yelling over the music, trying to keep his voice as non-threatening as possible.

“Baby-bat? Can I please look at your face? If something is broken we need to go to the hospital.”

“I'M FINE,” Lucien replied in a tone that implied the opposite.

“Can I see it anyway? Darling, you know how I worry.” Damien yelled back.

The music stopped, the door opened, and a cloud of smoke hit Damien in the face. Lucien held the door, as if he may close it any second, and looked up at his father with an expression that spoke of carefully crafted neutrality. He had cleaned up the blood and changed his shirt, and didn't really look any worse for wear.

“Seriously dad,” Lucien motioned to his face with his free hand, “I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?” Damien bent down and gingerly touched his son's face, watching closely for any trace of pain. The boy didn't wince, even when he touched his nose.

“Yeah he just hit me weird or something. I got a nosebleed but it stopped. I don't even say 'he  _ gave  _ me a nosebleed'. It could have just been inconvenient timing.” Lucien didn't pull away, but he did look annoyed.

“I watched the video, Lucien.” Damien sighed, “Can I come inside? It's bad luck to linger in doorways.”

Lucien stepped aside and motioned for Damien to enter. He took a long drag off the joint he had been hiding behind the door, since there was no longer any way to hide it, and he knew he was already in trouble. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. Whether or not Damien cared about weed or drinking was a toss-up. He couldn't find a predictable pattern in it, which was ridiculous, because Damien felt that the pattern of 'not if it interferes with your studies' was perfectly predictable. Damien took a seat, gingerly, on the unmade bed and took a long sip of his wine staring vaguely in the direction of the gaming pc he had helped his son build, which had been the source of the music.

“I understand what you were trying to do.” He said after he swallowed.

“Thank you.”

“Let me finish, please? But you know how that school is,” Damien looked up at him. “You could not possibly have thought that a place that throws a giant fit over a little eyeshadow was going to let you quietly work on non consensual performance art.” He raised a hand when he saw his son was going to speak, “Even if it was highly educational.” He took another deep drink and held out his hand. Lucien took a long drag before he passed the joint to him.

“Earnest and his dad are assholes,” Lucien explained, “And that's bullshit. I know he's better than that. I thought maybe to teach him anything you'd have to beat him over the head with it. He's not even mad so I don't know why the school is mad.”

“Don't use expletives to describe people, please,” Damien took a drag himself and felt his nerves calm a little, “It's so disrespectful, and in this case both unnecessary and incorrect. Hugo has been extremely understanding and kind to you.”

“He's not kind to Ernest,” Lucien stood defiantly with one hand on his hip.

“You're only getting one side of that, Baby-Bat,” Damien finished his wine and sat the glass on the computer desk, “Let them work it out themselves. He's trying. Are you sure you're alright? He hit you with his full body weight.”

“He weighs like 90 pounds,” Lucien rolled his eyes, grabbed his computer chair, and sat next to his father.

“That can be quite a bit of body weight. A 45 pound wildcat can easily take down a 200 pound human. And he seems to have a lot of... rage. I do feel for that boy. We should invite them over to apologize for trying to... entomb him.” He sighed and took the joint Lucien held out, “Darling, it's difficult to joke with people like Ernest. I believe he still thinks that you were trying to kill him.”

“Dad, he's stupid but he's not that stupid. If I had meant to kill him, I'd have chained him up. And he'd be dead.”

“That isn't funny, Lucien. I don't care what your aunty says.”

“So why didn't you drive?” Lucien asked, and the question startled Damien.

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you have that new guy drive you around? Are we like, friends with him or something now?” Lucien opened a baggie and began to break up the weed to roll a second joint.

“I'm... unsure. He came over for tea.” Damien admitted, as he looked around for an ashtray. Lucien noticed and handed it to him.

“You had a tea party without me?” Lucien teased, but it seemed to mask real pain. Damien was having fun while he was at school getting punched, and the imbalance hurt him.

“Darling I told you about that,” Damien sighed, “He messaged me on Dadbook and I sent him a letter, and he accepted.”

“He accepted? What did he say?”

“I would really rather not make this conversation about me.” Damien sighed, “I won't be distracted. We need to talk about your suspension.”

“So did he write you back on Dadbook or text you or what?” Lucien asked as he licked the paper and pressed it closed.

“Lucien,” Damien warned.

“Is he gonna be my new dad? Oh shit!” His eyes shot open.

“What?”

“Amanda, that senior chick would be my sister.”

“We had one evening in each others' company, Baby Bat. And it ended with him watching me fail to keep my child in school- which I believe is one of the most basic tasks of parenting.” He played with his empty wine glass, and added under his breath, “Of course Mary and Joseph do fail the obligation to keep their children out of traffic, so perhaps the bar isn't set very high.”

“So he's  _ not  _ gonna be my new dad?” Lucien asked as he lit his new joint.

“Lucien I know what you're doing,” Damien warned.

“Impossible,” Lucien dismissed without exhaling, “I am an enigma.”

“But no, he probably won't be your 'new dad'.” Damien rolled his eyes and took it from him, then snuffed it out, “And focus, for five minutes, please.”

“I am intensely focused,” Lucien held up both hands in a show of surrender.

“I want you to succeed, Baby Bat.” Damien looked at him, deeply, with great sincerity.

“Dad, we both know that that school hasn't liked me since we moved here. I think my future might lie outside academia, but I promise you that I'll go to college. Hand on a bible.” He rummaged around in a drawer on the computer desk and pulled one out, “This one that I stole from Joseph.”

“Don't steal things from Joseph, please?” Damien massaged his temples with one hand, then reached for the joint to calm his nerves and motioned for the lighter, which Lucien handed him.

“Well if he was ever at his house instead of on that goddamn boat-”

“Language, please? You're killing me. You're killing your father.”

“No, seriously, he's not at the house. That's why I've been babysitting every night while Aunt Mary goes to get shitfaced drunk.”

“Jesus, I'm a terrible father,” Damien stared at the flame as he clicked the lighter, “You shouldn't know that.”

“Dad, everyone knows that.” Lucien explained, “I think Crish calls  _ me  _ 'dada'.”

“Well,” Damien sighed and ashed, “If she needs us, we'll be there for Mary. God knows she was there for me.”

“Yeah but you had one kid and she has 4. Also she wasn't very good at watching me. I ate dirt. More than once.”

“Well, darling, it was that or the workhouse,” Damien sighed.

“Do you like him?” Lucien leaned in.

“Are you going to get a job?” Damien countered.

“Can I work at the shelter?” Lucien asked.

“Lucien.”

“It's not that bad!” Lucien protested.

“The last time you got anywhere  _ near  _ dander your throat swelled together and you almost died. I won't even wear my clothes home. I don't really like you walking around outdoors. I should keep you in a climate controlled bubble.” Damien didn't feel like the conversation was going the way he had hoped, and decided to find a diplomatic way to escape it. “Get up and get ready. Let's go to Taco Bell.”


End file.
